Hannibal - The Artist
by ArielFetters
Summary: The events of Silence of the Lambs have finally blown over and Clarice has the life she's always wanted. Fame, fortune, and a corner office in the FBI. Her dreams are proving to be a nightmare of lies, manipulation, and greed, and the only man she trusts is the last she should. One-Shot, complete. Rated M for violence and psychological themes.


The Artist

A one shot story

Hannibal Lecter, Clarice Starling, and the Hannibal franchise are the property of Universal Pictures. Hannibal and related characters created by Thomas Harris. Fanfic author makes no claims and intends no infringement to their properties or rights, and receives no compensation for this work.

IE; I did it for the story, not to steal anyone's thunder or pretend I could make bank.

Author's Note: I've always been a huge Hannibal series fan. Loved the first Hopkins movie. The second was okay but since it was based off a work even Thomas Harris said was basically bad fanfic written at the demands of his publisher, it wasn't the best. Hannibal Rising was solid, and the TV show was sublime.

This story takes place after Silence of the Lambs and while it has hints at parts of the movie Hannibal, it isn't in any way a retelling or even a reimagining. I just copied over some details I liked. Also, it incorporates some elements of the TV show such as Will Graham being in-universe prior to Silence of the Lambs as Lector's original 'interest' (Watch the TV show, it'll make sense) and Hannibal actually caring for people in a registerable way instead of as a twisted undertone like in the movies. Not that he's not twisted, far from it. Again, watch the show and it'll make sense.

This Clarice is different than the usual. Sure she's still a dedicated agent but she's become bitter, disillusioned, burned out, and a real hardcase. She now has severe trust issues and is desperate for someone, anyone, she can connect to that she can rely on. She has intimacy issues because people have wanted to have sex with her just so they can brag about it. She's profited monetarily, but in all other ways feels, and in many is, diminished. Thanks to that she also has issues with people making money by screwing others over. In her mind lying and cheating your way to wealth is no better than rape in a lot of ways. She's refused to lie and cheat, and because of that about all she has left is her integrity and dreams of the life she'd wanted to lead but now never can.

For those interested in the knife that features prominently towards the end, google "Ironwood MLR by Broadwell" (Minus the quotes of course) but sized (If a bit large) for a woman.

That said, let's get this show on the road.

-^V^- -^V^- -^V^-

Chapter one - Night into day, ignore what the press say.

Clarice looked out of her brand new office at the rising sun and pondered the bullet in her hand.

A 10mm +P hollowpoint with a polished steel casing and a silver bullet.

It'd been sitting on her desk in a small glass case with a little plaque that read "Silver, to slay that which goes bump in the night."

Someone's idea of a joke.

If she was gonna shoot anyone with it, it wouldn't be Dr. Lecter. Krendler on the other hand was a definite possibility.

After Dr. Lecter's escape the whole mess with him had gone public. That he'd once been an FBI consultant himself, ironically brought in to help solve his own case and that in the process he'd helped put away more than a dozen serial killers, all of them known on a national, even international, level. That he'd both broken and fixed an FBI profiler at the same time, taking a young man classified as sane only because people had needed his gift and changing him into a dark, brooding, but functional human being in full control of his faculties and his life. Moreso, the only reason he'd been caught was because he and that FBI agent had nearly died taking on one of the most famous and deadly serial killers of the last 50 years and when the cops had shown up after a tip call he'd placed, he'd surrendered.

Public opinion on Dr. Lecter was now mixed. Sure the man was a cannibilistic serial killer but how many lives had he saved? No one was sure other than a lot. Plus he wasn't some cheap thug with daddy issues or some drug addled cultist. He was smart, educated, cultured, well spoken, even friendly if you weren't on the menu. He wasn't a random killer either. He tended to target assholes with bad manners and people that'd wronged him, and his first kills had been to protect, and then avenge, his family.

Then there was the fact that he'd been arrested and incarcerated without anyone outside the case knowing. An obvious move to let the FBI save face and it'd bitten them in the ass hard once it'd gotten out.

And in the deluge that an FBI cadet, one Clarice Starling, a 'troubled but promising young woman' as one reporter had put it, had essentially been sacrificed to Lecter to get his help with a case even their best active agents couldn't make any headway on. Her sanity, her potential, even her life had been on the table so they could get one of the most dangerous men alive to help them find yet another in a neverending line of monsters.

He'd helped, them and her, and in the end she'd come out of it all with the life she'd always dreamed. Fame, a relatively fat bank account, her own place paid for in full, a car that wasn't older than she was or beat to shit, the recognition of her peers, even a corner office with a view. Her few remaining family and friends were all proud of her as could be and had no idea why she wasn't happy as a pig in slop.

How did you tell your loved ones that your dream was one huge lie?

Her fame? More infamy than anything else, and tabloids wouldn't shut up about supposed liaisons she and Dr. Lecter'd supposedly had, were having, and would have. The awards and so on that she'd been given were just there to take up space on her wall and look impressive. None of them meant anything, literally or figuratively. Her bank account was fat only because her bosses had demanded she do a tell-all book that they'd carefully written for her as a PR fluff piece with the proviso they'd skim 25% off the top as a 'consulting fee' and the remaining 75% was essentially a bribe to sit down, shut up, and fade into obscurity like a good little girl.

The book that'd hit the shelves wasn't the one they'd planned. The 'Co author' she'd been teamed with was an ex reporter that hated puff pieces and wasn't opposed to spending all night talking at Denny's, essentially writing the whole book over coffee and snacks over the course of a month, then submitting _that_ to the publisher. The publisher had known and run with it, and despite all attempts to cover it all up the truth was now out there. Her bosses had been pissed, she'd pulled one over on them bigtime, but the contracts were already ironclad and if they'd retaliated she'd have had grounds to call a damages lawyer, maybe even IA to report attempted coercion.

So, to shut her up, her bosses had pretty much forced her to accept the bounty check the victims of Buffalo Bill had posted complete with a little ceremony and weeping survivors treating her like some kind of messiah. Then they'd given her a 'huge' promotion to overseeing a 'critical supplies allocation center' AKA a warehouse, where her corner office was one of exactly five rooms in the entire building with the other four being bathrooms."

They still occasionally 'loaned her out' on minor cases to local law enforcement, probably she figured, to keep her mollified and quiet plus it was free PR. Made everyone feel important to have her show up to lend her 'expertise' to a case. Never mind the fact she actually proved to be good on a scene. Enough so the people she worked with on those cases started deciding her rep as a top agent _wasn't_ bullshit.

Krendler, who's idea it'd all been, had been publicly reprimanded and reassigned. The man was apparently made of teflon and trained by Sho Kosugi however because nothing stuck to him and when he disappeared he was just gone. According to the rumormill he'd been scouted for off the book ops but of course no one knew, or wanted to know, anything. She was just glad he was gone.

She rolled the bullet in her fingers and mentally groused _Cadet to cynical burnout case with a dead end career in 3 years. Poppa'd be so proud._

Then the phone on her desk rang. She sighed and picked it up, then froze when a familiar voice cood "Hello Clarice."

Since she couldn't call him by name, not here and not now, she said "Hello Machiavelli."

His breathy chuckle sent a shiver up her spine. "Cute, if bitingly adroit."

She sighed and set the bullet in her other hand down on her desk. "I wish I could say I try but these days I don't need to. How are you?"

"Hoping to trace the number?"

"No hardware for it even if I wanted to, and I don't."

"Why?"

"Because I'm sick and tired of people lying to me and right about now I figure the only person I can count on to _not_ lie to me's you. Or have the rules changed?"

"No, though I reserve the right to decline to answer anything I feel would endanger my well being."

"Fair enough."

"To answer your question, I'm well. You look as if you could use some rest however."

She probably should've been scared by that but the fact someone, anyone, gave enough of a damn about her to bother to _notice_ , much less mention it, nixed the impulse. "Probably, but also probably not going to change anytime soon. I don't sleep much these days."

"Nothing related to me I hope."

She paused, then said "No, you're actually what helps me get to sleep."

His voice was full of laughter when he replied "I'm flattered but what would the tabloids think?"

She rolled her eyes but couldn't help smiling. "Not like that, jeeze."

"Alas, my fragile heart is crushed by your denials."

"More like you were trying to goad me into a chuckle. Thank you."

"You're quite welcome. So, how is it thoughts of me helps you sleep?"

"I remind myself that you're out there and that wherever that 'out there' is, there's someone that's _not_ trying to stab me in the back, use me to further their career, or jump my bones so they could brag about banging the famous Clarice Starling."

"So I'm the least of all evils? That should worry you Clarice. Greatly."

"It does, believe me. Still, crazy as it is and don't think I miss the irony, you're the good guy in the mess that is my life."

There was a pause, then when his voice sounded next there was something in his tone she couldn't quite place. "I suggest you speak to a former BAU agent named William Graham. He could give you a more detailed, first hand description of my attitudes on of ethics and the nature of what is and is not evil."

"I will but there's something I'd like to point you to in return."

"Oh?"

"If you were really and truly evil, you wouldn't be suggesting I talk to him."

That earned her another pause, then a curious "If evil I'm not, then what am I?"

She smiled and couldn't help a quick chuckle. "Complicated."

-^V^- -^V^-

"Clarice Starling, right?"

She nodded as William Graham, former partner/collegue/cohort/victim of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, decorated and retired member of the FBI BAU, held his office door open for her.

"Thanks for seeing me on short notice."

"I'm actually surprised it took you this long to call me." he replied with a tight smile.

"Actually it was _his_ idea." She stated, looking around. The room was pretty large with only two doors, a window wall facing the street (Currently blocked by a huge white velvet curtain) bookshelves, and two comfortable looking chairs.

There was a minimalist, opulent, slightly Italian class to it all that struck her instantly. She turned to her host and asked "This was his place before, wasn't it?"

The man paused as he closed the door, then klunked it shut and said "It was. Can you spot the changes I made?"

She knew this was a test to see how deep in her head Hannibal had gotten but to be honest she was interested in answering that question herself.

She meandered the room, taking it all in and noticing it all, but focusing on nothing just like she would at a crime scene. Which, knowing the building's current and former owners, it'd probably been at some point.

After a while she said "The chairs, some of the books, the curtain, the paint, the ceiling fan. Maybe the wattage on the lightbulbs. I remember him preferring soft light."

The man nodded, his expression a mix of impressed and sad. "Right on all counts. Please, sit. Want something to drink?"

"No, thank you. Way my life's going I'm not sure I'd stop."

He smiled but it had no mirth to it. "I know exactly what you mean, unfortunately."

Once they were both seated he asked "So, he told you to come talk to me. When and why? Start at the beginning and go from there."

So, she did. Hours later when she finished he sighed. "I think calling your life a trainwreck is a large understatement. I'm half surprised you're not suicidal."

She smiled tightly. "Too stubborn to give up, I guess. Or too stupid."

"Or both." He agreed. "However I think perhaps you're right about him being the sole point of stability in your life and that's a very bad, sad thing."

"Trust me, I'm not huge on the situation either." She confirmed, scowling.

He nodded and stood. "We can't sort through even a tenth of what we discussed unless we stay here for the next month. I suggest we do this again, next week, 7 PM."

She stood and shot him a cockeyed grin. "Did I just get added to your patient list?"

"If you'd like to sort this out, and you need to, who better?"

He had a point. Several, actually come to think on it. "Seven it is."

She was in the doorway walking out when he asked "Can you cook?"

She stopped, then turned and said "Not really. Why?"

"Remember what our friend does in his spare time. I have a feeling you'll find it edifying on multiple levels."

She blinked, then nodded. "I'll think about it."

"That's all I'd ask. Be safe Ms. Starling."

"You too Mr. Graham."

-^V^- -^V^-

"Complicated."

That word resounded in her head as started awake, sitting up and looking around for a moment, still semi asleep, before her brain caught up to reality. Once it did she fell back in bed and tried to go back to sleep, but all she could do was stare at the ceiling.

A half hour of that later she checked the clock next to her bed and scowled at it. 3 AM, and she didn't usually get up until 6.

With nothing else she could do and sleep not seeming to be a realistic option she got up, showered, tossed on some sweats and an apron, then got to work on her first 'nice' meal courtesy of a cookbook and some new pots, pans, and skillets she'd gotten at one of the new megastore place called WalMart that was open 24/7 and sold a lot of everything at ridiculously low prices. She figured they'd go out of business, no way could they be turning a profit like this, but in the meantime she might as well take advantage of it.

An hour and a half later she had to admit the food on her plate looked and smelled pretty damn good even if it'd been a giant pain to make. Of course that'd been because she had no idea what she was doing either. All she'd had was the food version of a lotta parts, a manual, and some tools. That she'd made something that even _looked_ edible felt like a not so small triumph.

Taking a moment to pray she hadn't made a really pretty plate of manure she took her first bite of the steak and nope, definitely not manure. More like the kinda food she'd have expected to pay 60 bucks for at a steakhouse. Damn, she could get used to this.

When she walked into work that morning she felt better than she had in weeks. A belly full of good food, and she'd finally managed to connect, sort of, to a couple people that weren't trying to use her, bed her, or lie to her face. That one was a serial killer and the other a semi-recluse with a nasty past barely registered. They were there, no matter who or what they were, and that was what she needed.

-^V^- -^V^-

6 months later

Her life was split like a log.

On one hand was work. She went in, she did paperwork, she kept supplies flowing (Like that movie Jack had made her watch, the spice must flow. Especially when about half of it was headed to 'off the books' assets around the city like safehouses and so on) and she read a lot of books since about 80% of what she did was stay out of everyone's way. Like she told them during one of the first 'division' meetings. Her job was to enable them to do theirs, not to tell them how. They knew that already because if they didn't they wouldn't be working there. Once she'd proven she wasn't spewing happy-happy bullshit and followed through on her promises people started treating her like she wasn't something they'd stepped in. Especially after one guy had applied for emergency leave time to be with his wife who'd been diagnosed with final stage cancer and when it'd been denied she raised holy hell about it with the personnel department until they'd caved just to get her outta their faces.

Then there was non work time. She was slowly learning to cook, even going so far as to enroll in a city collage chef class (She'd just graduated with an A-), hitting the gym to keep from blowing up like a balloon since she was eating more and better, playing the stock market a bit since a modest savings was good but a big savings was better, started taking better care of herself, and after one too many comments about dressing 'frumpy' when off duty she started changing that too.

Since buying nice clothes was expensive as all get out she started making outfits from scratch using patterns she got at a local sewing store. It was, she learned fast, a hell of a lot more complex than re-stitching a seam on a blouse and you needed an actual sewing machine, not just a needle, thread, and some scissors. But, like with her cooking, the end results were something she couldn't argue with and for once no one else did either. In fact they started complimenting her, which was a new experience.

She saw Graham every week like clockwork and most of what they talked about was Hannibal, though they very carefully never said his name. When Graham had heard she was calling Hannibal Machiavelli when they spoke he'd laughed so hard he'd spilled his coffee and accidentally ruined a $250 shirt. Hannibal still called a couple or three times a month, sent her typed letters on special occasions, and he always had tips for the kitchen plus he could explain the complex stuff in a way she could understand. When one of her co-workers heard her talking to him on the phone and she'd called him 'Signore Julius Machiavelli, a college friend that'd moved overseas' he'd had to beg off further talk for the day while snirking so hard trying to suppress laughter she hoped he didn't burst something.

Then the men in black showed up and her soothing routine went straight to hell.

-^V^- -^V^-

Chapter 2 - Never trust an honest man

She heard people climbing the steps to her office and frowned. The footsteps were too uniform and not heavy enough to be one of her people, and a quick look out the window showed nothing seemed to be amiss.

She got a bad feeling and pulled her gun, a compensated Sig P226, then held it in her lap under her desk with one hand while setting down the book she'd been reading and pretending to do some already-done paperwork with the other.

Then the door opened and she seriously considered pulling the trigger.

"Starling. Getting fat and sloppy I see."

"Krendler. Still sacrificing your underlings to your career or do you just look like an malignant sociopathic narcissist as a matter of course?"

He glared at her while one of the two men with him stepped forward and said "Agent Smith, BAU, Ms. Starling. We-"

She held up her free hand, the other still on the gun under her desk, and said "First, unless someone fired me and didn't tell me I'm _Agent_ Starling, not Ms. Second, Krendler and I have a bad history don't we you lying, backstabbing, sadistic little weasel?" She asked pointedly.

"I told you she was an egotistical upstart!" Krendler exclaimed, motioning furiously at her.

"Ah ah, pointing's not nice. Didn't your momma ever teach you that?"

"Achem. As I was trying to say, a case has come up. We think we have a line on Hannibal Lecter and we want your input since you're the closest thing to an expert we have aside from agent Krendler who-"

"Never bothered to read Dr. Lecter's file to my knowledge, and I know for a fact never once set eyes on the man in person." She interrupted. "If he's convinced you he's an expert on Dr. Lecter he's lying. He does that a lot you know. In fact, just to prove my point, a question from Dr. Lecter's file and feel free to double check it. What brand of suits does Dr. Lecter prefer?"

"Armani." her nemesis replied instantly.

"Nnnnnnt! He doesn't have a favorite brand because whenever possible he gets custom made one-off's, southern European styling, usually with a fine cotton outside to keep warm on cold nights, leather and steel wire inner in case someone comes at him with a knife, he's around those a lot you know, and silk lining for comfort. When he does have to buy off the shelf he prefers a Pinafarina Montoya 3-piece, double breasted with 2 buttons and loose but not baggy pants. He also wears fitted leather shoes, dressy but with sneaker soles just in case he has to move fast."

"Achem, right. So we can be sure you're still knowledgeable about Dr. Lecter."

 _More than you know nitwit. Armani. Pfft. As if._ She mentally scoffed.

"So are you going to make yourself useful or sit here pounding donuts all day?"

She looked back at Krendler and smiled since it was the most infuriating thing she could do. "Your forensic skills seem to need some work Krenny-boy. No donuts on my desk, no box, no wax paper on it or in the trash, no speckles or icing flecks from them having been here. No smell of grease or grease stains either. If you're the gold standard no wonder the BAU wants me back."

"You won't last ten minutes in the field Starling. You let three unknowns into your AOE and didn't even pull your gun."

She pulled her hand out from under the desk and asked "You mean this gun that I hid under my desk pointed right at the door the moment I didn't recognize three military-crisp people walking up those steps? The gun you, I'd like to point out, didn't know was aimed straight at your guts this whole time. Oh, and since you seem to have forgotten I'm right handed, not left, but I was doing paperwork with my left hand when you walked in."

The third, until-now silent man finally spoke. "Abrasive, but knowledgeable about the target. Far more self assured than your file suggests, and much more tactically minded. Forensic skills also much more developed than your jacket indicates. Alley score?"

She looked at him. "762's my average. Feel free to double check that too."

He nodded. "And more than competent in a combat situation."

"I try. Who are you?"

"Agent Johnson."

She sighed, stood, and holstered her gun. "Smith and Johnson. Someone needs to work on developing non-cliche cover ID's."

He quirked a smile. "I'll take it under advisement. So?"

"I'll go simply because it'll make Krendler look like the no talent liar he is. How soon do I need to report?"

"Immediately. Your temporary replacement will arrive shortly."

She nodded, picked up her book, and followed them out of the room since she'd never personalized her office. As they left she flagged the floor supervisor Kenny, and said "Being transferred, temp job, probably a few weeks. The temp'll be here who the hell knows when."

"Got it boss. Try and come back in one piece."

"Will do." She replied with a smile.

Fifteen minutes of walking later she passed through that familiar set of doors, and smelled the familiar, almost subliminal zing of adrenaline and triple strength coffee. Memories, not all of them bad, flashed through her mind and she ignored them. This time around she wasn't a timid little schoolgirl chasing a dream but if she played her cards right then maybe, just maybe, she could finally catch it.

Five security checkpoints later (There used to be only three, she wondered what'd changed that) they actually got to the BAU branch of the building and she saw Jack, waiting and smiling. "Clarice, always knew they'd drag you back here someday."

"I never wanted to leave in the first place. You my minder?"

"Yep." Then her friend eyed Krendler like something so foul the sewer had spat it out. "Who let you in? I was pretty sure we had rules against animals in the building."

"Krendler. Still pretending you're witty I see. How's-"

She interrupted the man before he could finish the sentence. "Keep going and I'll call IA, let 'em know you're purposefully causing undue mental and emotional stress to your co-workers thus rendering them less able to do their jobs. I'm sure they'd love to beat the reason for that outta you."

The man glared at her for a moment then turned and left. The other two shrugged and followed him out while her new partner winced and said "Damn Clarice, you got mean."

"Had to." she replied sadly. "So, what do we know about the subject?"

-^V^- -^V^-

Three days later she found herself in New York at a crime scene facing a mutilated body the killer had displayed in a macabre parody of a famous new sculpture in the Metropolitan museum a few blocks over.

"This isn't the work of Dr. Lecter." She stated after a moment.

Jack looked at her, surprised. "What makes you say that? Posed body with art influences, pieces missing, near a high traffic area but in an isolated spot. Vic's a known womanizer with arrests for domestic violence and disturbing the peace so he probably had the manners of a pit bull."

"For one the body's posed like an _actual_ work of art. He doesn't do that. He tries to make new art, if you can call it that. The locale's right but it would've taken hours to do this. Plus look at the wounds."

"Savage, stress on the vitals. His usual M.O."

"Not _that_. The edges of the actual cuts. Whatever blade was used wasn't surgically sharp. And the kidney there, that's a gash not a slice. The blade was big too, not something you could carry around without anyone noticing. Machete maybe, or small sword. Either the subject found one just laying around or they put a lot of work into smuggling it here. This's complex, almost ornate. Lecter prefers fast. In, kill, display, done, gone to minimize the chances of discovery. Plus can you imagine a cannibal with a full MD eating _anything_ off this guy? It'd be poison and the meat would be foul. This's a copycat."

She looked around some more then said "Killer KO'd the vic in the alley, dragged them in, then spent 3, maybe 4 hours on this without alerting anyone, all in the middle of the day. That means strength and high level abilities in stealth. No idea as to cause and there's so much secondary damage we'll need an autopsy to figure out the actual cause of death."

He nodded and the senior field agent on site was looking impressed. "Very nice work Starling. Heard you were good on a scene from a friend in the NYPD but I guess he understated things."

"Thanks. As for the perp... male, late 30's early 40's, works a blue collar job. Construction maybe, or warehouse worker somewhere things aren't heavily automated. Comes from a poverty or lower middle class background. Possibly ex military, low ranking. It'd explain their ability to be stealthy enough to pull this off. Maybe something about the vics triggers a PTSD attack and he kills to make it go away then tries to imitate Lecter both to disguise the crimes and because something about killing inspires him." She paused, then said "That's the best I can do, sorry."

"Your best's damn good work kid. Head back to the truck, get it all typed up while it's fresh in your head."

She nodded. "Yessir." She walked off, then paused once she was around the corner where she could hear but not be seen.

"Lot to pick up on this fast Jack. Especially for a glorified cadet."

"Always told you she was good sir though yeah, she did pick up a lot more than I thought she would."

"Hnh. Rumors about her and Lecter true?"

"Were they lovers? No. Far as I could tell there was nothing romantic in their relationship. More like half therapy half mentor. She was able to get pretty deep in his head though, string him along long enough to do what we needed. From what a hardcase she's become he got into hers a bit too. Even picked up some of his hobbies, like high end cooking. Notice the foul meat comment? She's fond of beef dishes, started going to an actual butcher for her meat instead of the grocery store. Damn good cook too. I was there for her birthday a few weeks ago and made molasses glazed bacon lined steaks with all the fixings. Had something like it years ago at a big family event where my uncle rented out an entire restaurant and according to the menu it cost something like 200 bucks. I know it was actual beef though. The packaging was still on the counter."

"She good with a knife?"

"For carving meat yes. She doesn't buy deli sliced meat anymore, cuts it herself with a knife big as my forearm thin as paper each slice. For this... I can't see it. She was right about the sharpness of the blade used and a chef wouldn't go near a dull knife. She was right about the physical strength needed too and she just doesn't have it."

"Lecter helping maybe?"

"No signs he's been anywhere near her and the phone taps haven't picked up anything unusual. One last thing. Timeline. We know where she's been every minute for the last 72 hours and it was with the team, at work in her office, or alone in her house. Unless she's got a twin sister no one knew about her alibi's armor plated."

"Huh. Well, glad to know she didn't flip but that puts us back at square one and her copycat theory." The man sighed, then said "Get her reports then send her home. She confirmed and proved this isn't Lecter and we confirmed it wasn't her. She's not needed and while she's unexpectedly solid on a scene she's not BAU."

"I'll see what I can do without tipping her off. What next?"

"Keep up the surveillance another 72. We don't get anything we'll drop her from the list."

She walked off, careful not to make any noise despite wanting to scream invectives at the top of her lungs then go in there and beat the team lead with a goddamn tenderizer so bad his momma wouldn't recognize him, then do worse to Jack for stabbing her in the back. She'd trusted him! Invited him into her home, treated him like family, and this was how he paid her back?! She'd expected the team lead to have an angle but not what she'd thought was her best friend!

She forced her expression to remain idle, forced her body to move like it usually did, and typed up her reports like she was supposed to. Then Jack showed up and after double checking her work said "Looks good. Listen, we needed you as a consult for the Lecter angle. Did good, damn good on that, but your part's done. Head back to DC, hit headquarters for final debrief, and maybe we can get together Saturday for lunch? Boss was impressed with you, we might be able to wedge you back into the BAU."

She let her facade drop and said "Don't bother _Jack_ , I was standing around the corner listening. I knew something was fishy the moment Krendler showed up but I never would've expected _you_ to stab me in the back. I could've handled anyone else here doing this to me. Hell, I was goddamn expecting it. But not this, and not you. I'm going back to DC, I'm taking the early retirement offer, and I'm getting as far from this cesspool of backstabbing manipulative liars as I can. Consider yourself disinvited from my life."

Everyone in the truck but Jack winced. He however had the sheer balls to look upset.

"Look, I was just-"

"Doing your job? If you'd had me under surveillance as tight as it sounded you'd have _already known_ I wasn't involved and I never would've discovered you were sliding that knife between my shoulder blades. But that wasn't enough, was it? You had to trot me over here for a dog and pony show just like everyone else has done my entire goddamn career, put me through my paces, pat me on the head, tell me what a good girl I am, and then you come here and lie to my face. Now you have the gall to stand there looking outraged?!"

"Look, you're taking this all the wrong way okay?! It wasn't personal!"

She looked him dead in the eyes and declared "Say what you will about Lecter but he at least has the integrity to look someone in the eyes when he cuts their heart out and own up to it if he gets caught. Puts him over you now, doesn't it?"

The entire truck went dead silent.

Since she had nothing else to say she left, flagged down a cab, and headed for the airport.

Her career in the FBI was officially over before the sun set.

-^V^- -^V^-

Chapter 3 - Cat or mouse

Clarice Starling smirked as the reporter she'd given an exclusive to for a very nice chunk of change finished their story. As of now Jack was worse than dead. No one would trust him, Gina might well divorce him and take everything he owned, his other friends would start asking themselves if he'd already fucked them without them finding out, his career was done, he was a public pariah, and best of all she hadn't broken a law or reg. There was absolutely nothing he or the FBI could do. Not legally, and she was almost hoping for someone to try something she could do more than sling mud for.

Of course she was smart enough not to take that kind of risk, hence why she was in a very nice hotel room (Even the 'economy' suites in the place were borderline opulent) she'd paid for with cash so her credit card couldn't be used to find her and watching the fireworks on a big screen TV.

The lawyer the reporter had brought along just to cover the contracts had informed her that (Obviously hoping he'd be the one she hired) she had an open and shut harassment lawsuit with a lot of zeroes attached guaranteed. If she was willing to settle out of court and accept a gag order as a condition there'd be even more. Six months, maybe a year, and she'd be set to live like a queen for the rest of her life.

She was tempted, so very tempted, but she wasn't going to stoop to _their_ level. The cash from the reporter was just to cover laying low while the initial storm blew over and after that to move as far from all this as possible. She wasn't like _them_ , she wasn't going to profit by screwing people over.

Of course if they tried to screw her some more they'd find out she had an armor plated alibi. The hotel she was in was used a lot by business types, travelling officials, and as a temporary safehouse for witness protection. She knew that because her warehouse covered half the supplies for the place. Thus there were cameras all over the place and guards on every way in, out, or around. Hell, just getting to her room had walked her by nine men with badges and guns plus fifteen or so cameras. Best of all no one here would rat her out. Employees signed security waivers and the clientele mostly consisted of paranoid security types with a lot of guns or businessmen pulling shady shit, usually with bodyguards that also had a lot of guns.

She only had one, her customized sig, but she'd added a knife just in case. A little something she'd also bought with cash from a store one of the warehouse workers with a blade fetish wouldn't shut up about. A double edged 'sub hilt fighter' (Whatever that meant) that fit her hand, was built solid as a crowbar, didn't look like something out of an action movie, and had an edge as sharp as her kitchen knives that the salesman had sworn it wouldn't lose anytime soon unless she tried to cut down a tree or something. All she knew for sure was that it was heavy, moved like an extension of her arm, and had cost nearly half a month's pay.

The news program went on to the other top stories of the day and she turned the volume down so she could listen for anything of interest but hear the radio scanner she'd bought to listen for spikes in local comms traffic on freq's the FBI used. Without a descrambler she wouldn't actually understand anything but with a 1 klick range, if nearby traffic spiked she'd know something was up and could duck out before she got locked down.

She shook her head. Hiding from the government and the feds was proving to be far too easy for her. Sure she knew most of the tricks she used since she'd been one herself but still. She was almost having fun thumbing her nose at them. No, screw that. She was having fun throwing their bullshit back in their faces. She'd given them everything, they'd screwed her, now she was doing some screwing of her own and it felt damn good.

Idly she wondered if this was (Minus the killing people of course) how Hannibal felt.

-^V^- -^V^-

"Tell me there's something we can do to shut that bitch up!" Krendler bellowed at his team. Jack Crawford was useless, so was the team lead, but as the new head of the BAU that made them his people. Their screwups would put shit on his doorstep and this mess wasn't a turd. No, Starling was involved so it was more of a mountain of brown.

The head of legal shook his head. "She didn't relay actual details of the case like the MO of the perp or whatever, and while she outed details about the operation she was doing so under the new whistleblower law and reporting what could easily be construed as criminal harassment. Unfortunately there's already several precedents for her actions and the public's probably eating this up. If we took her to court I'd put our chances at 80% or so that we'd lose and just give her even more grounds for a harassment lawsuit. I have people keeping an eye on damages lawyers with federal court licences but nothing's popped so far."

"Keep looking for something dammit, she's making a laughinstock of the BAU!"

"YOU DID THAT!" Crawford all but screamed, coming to life from where he'd been slumped with a dead look in his eyes. "YOU provided the profile that marked her as the perp! YOU brought her in to solve her own case just like Lecter was! YOU pulled the strings on ALL of this!"

"Calm down Crawford, we'll settle the media down soon enough and you can get back to chasing nut jobs." He retorted, scowling.

"Settle down?! My wife's already talking about divorcing me and a goddamn restraining order got dropped on my desk just before you demanded we all help you fix YOUR MESS! IA's already giving us all, YOU INCLUDED the hard eye over this! Everyone here, their career is fucking DEAD because of YOU!"

Now they were all looking at him furiously. Eggs, omelets, etcetera, but he knew you didn't give that speech to the eggs. Especially when one chickenshit was already unbalanced and they all had guns.

He was about to try and say something to calm them down when two men from IA showed up, flashed badges, and said "Mr. Krendler, you're on unpaid administrative leave pending a full investigation into this matter. Mr. Crawford, come with us."

Shit, if they got Crawford to talk, and right about now that'd be about as hard as falling off a pogo stick, he was screwed. Crawford knew about his history with that bitch, all of it, including shit that never made it into reports.

"Yessir." Crawford replied wearily, his fury dying out again as he stood.

"Your gun and badge." The talkative of the IA men asked as his partner set a hand on his own firearm.

He watched as Crawford meekly handed both over and walked off with them while the team started cursing him, fate, the FBI, and anything else they could think of.

He didn't bother trying to salvage this. His only chance now was to disappear and get overseas somewhere the FBI couldn't touch. Baltic states or south africa were solid options. Maybe even defect to Russia if he could get a good deal.

First though, he was going to end that Starling bitch once and for all.

-^V^- -^V^-

"Ex FBI agent wanted on capitol charges!" the headline on the newspaper exclaimed as she stuck a quarter in the machine. She pulled one out then headed to the nearby bistro she'd been going to have breakfast at. Five minutes later she had her back to a wall and the paper on the table in front of her while the waitress walked off.

She read the article and couldn't help a momentary feral smile. So, Krendler had finally screwed the pooch huh? Disappeared a step ahead of an IA investigation into harassment (Her), illegal surveillance, drug smuggling, espionage, and possibly murder. No one knew where he was, everyone was looking, and the general consensus was that he was already working on getting out of the country if he hadn't already.

She knew that was bullshit. Krendler would flee all right, but only after he'd killed her because in his mind, this'd all be her fault. With his connections it'd be just a matter of time until he found her. She could either hide, run, or fight back, and she was done with the first two. If he wanted to come at her, fine. She'd set a little trap, wait for him to make his move, then gut him like a goddamn pig back on the farm.

Since she figured shooting her in the back was just his speed, and she didn't have access to bulletproof vests anymore, she needed something she could put on that'd block a pistol shot. Luckily, she mused with a smile, Clint Eastwood movies and a trip to a hardware store could solve that. Once that was done she'd need to pick a route to wander that looked shadowed but had extensive camera coverage. Again not an issue. Everything in a 5 block radius of the hotel was under surveillance. All she'd need to do was make sure she was in a coverage area that was secluded enough he'd think he wasn't on candid camera, then survive his assassination attempt and drop his ass like a bad habit.

Since he'd expect her to be meek and offer little to no resistance she figured she could get one, maybe two hits in before he'd recover from the surprise. She needed to make 'em real good ones or she'd wind up with a bullet in the head fast as she could blink.

 _Thankfully,_ she mused darkly, _I know a doctor._

-^V^- -^V^-

Chapter 4, The Artist

Nine hours later in the chill evening air with the sun setting over the DC skyline she finished her beer, something Mexican with a strange name that had a lot in common with liquid hydrogen it'd been served so cold, and left the bar and grill she'd had dinner in. Then she pointed herself back at the hotel and started walking.

She was nearly halfway there, cutting behind a pharmacy, when Krendler's voice behind her, somehow right behind her, growled "Stupid move bitch, ducking through alleys with someone like me on your ass."

"Gonna shoot me in the back then? Or do you have the balls to do it to my face?" She asked, faking nervousness.

"This ain't a movie bitch, I'm not fallin for that shit. Hand over your sidearm."

She slowly pulled it out, thumbed the mag release, racked the slide, then poked it over her shoulder.

When he grabbed it and she felt his gun thunk against the steel plate she'd hung off her shoulders under her jacket, she moved.

-^V^- -^V^-

"Ex FBI agent butchers her nemesis in Lecter-esque homage!"

Dr. Hannibal Lecter, currently in disguise of course, sighed. Typical American melodramatics. Still, it might have a few clues as to what happened so he paid the gentleman running the news stand for the paper, thanked him for the change, then walked off with it tucked under his arm.

Once safely to a quiet shadowed restaurant he opened it up and read the article, then not sure he'd read it right the first time, read it again.

When he finished he resolved to head to the police forensics labs to get a closer look at the files since the picture the paper painted of what'd transpired was... implausible.

So, a few hours later and in another disguise, he opened the files locker with a key he'd appropriated from a gentleman currently sleeping off a mild concussion. He skipped the usual trivia like name, address, and so on, then stopped when he got to the scene report and witness statement.

It's contents were almost operatic and he closed his eyes, picturing it. Clarice, her prey at her back thinking itself superior. Pretending to be aquiver in fear, handing over her gun, and then spinning. Krendler's gun going off but the .45 caliber round bouncing off the steel plate she'd improvised body armor out of. Sparks, thunder, and then her knife flashing silver in the night. A streak of crimson as it slid effortlessly through the tendons in his gun hand's wrist all the way to the fine bones, nearly bisecting several.

A surprised yell, an arcing gleam, her blade caressing his abdomen, freeing his intestines in a spray of crimson. Another arc, never slowing, across the throat severing his windpipe and nicking a jugular. Arterial spray, a choking gurgle, shock and fear in his eyes as the blade makes one final curving motion, sliding up between two ribs, puncturing his right lung. Simultaneously drowning in his own blood and bleeding to death he instantly drops into severe wound shock and collapses at her feet shaking, his intestines spilling across her feet as a widening crimson puddle begins to form.

Her, standing over his dying body every image the huntress over her first kill. Knife bloody and dripping, covered in her prey's blood, reveling in the kill. Knowing what she needed to do next, calling out for someone to phone emergency services, then sitting on a nearby empty crate to wait for her former contemporaries in law enforcement while the body cooled in the chill night air.

His eyes opened and he considered taking the report as her first trophy but decided against it. He'd have to content himself with the imagery of it until he could convince her to describe it to him herself. And if she was carving her enemies up with such elán it was just a matter of time and careful wording in their future communications until she joined him of her own free will.

He smiled, reverently replaced the folder in it's cabinet, then departed as discretely as he'd arrived.

-^V^- -^V^-

Clarice ignored the reporters camped, pretty much literally, outside her condo as she packed for her move. She'd already sold the place, getting more than she'd hoped thanks to the celebrity factor of owning her home. Why that was she didn't want to know. What she did know was that the price jump had been enough she could look at getting an actual house in italy, not just a flat somewhere. Either that or she could snag a flat somewhere nice. She was leaning towards the flat somewhere nice. Pre-furnished if she could manage it.

Her legal issues were not a non issue. The FBI, being the manipulative lying bastards they were, had already pressured most of the media into moving on to other stories. Most had, it was largely tabloid reporters out there at the moment, but it was yet more proof hauling hindparts was a solid idea.

IAD showing up hadn't helped much either. Their statement had been short, to the point, and very if not overtly, threatening. Leave the country, soon and quietly. They'd cover 1st class airfare on a Concorde Jetliner to the city of her choice, speed process a change in citizenship, all of it. Just get the hell out of the US of A without making even more of a mess of things than she already had.

They had of course been confused when she'd refused the money they'd offered and her statement that she wasn't like _them_. She wasn't greedy and willing to fuck people over for the loose change in their pockets. She hadn't done any of this to better herself. Just to get the hell away from people who made a living pulling this kind of shit.

Still, she'd taken the rest of the deal - they hadn't been asking her to do anything she hadn't already planned to - and figured she could use what she'd budgeted for plane fare to fill her fridge, when she got one.

There was a knock on her door and she frowned. The media assholes weren't allowed on condoplex property so if one was here to bug her she'd be on the phone to the cops calling in a report of criminal trespass before they could yell 'the people have a right to know'.

She walked over, looked through the peephole, then opened her door.

-^V^- -^V^-

"Clarice Starling?" a wary looking postal worker holding a cardboard box asked.

"I am."

"Sign please."

She looked at the shipping information, froze a moment, then signed and said "Thanks."

"Uh huh." The man turned and pretty much fled but she didn't care. The package was what mattered because the sender was one Julius Machiavelli.

She opened it and inside was a gorgeous dress, shoes, underclothes, perfume, jewelry, a note, and her knife, now clean as the day she'd bought it. She opened the note and started reading.

 _Dear Clarice,_

 _I understand you're taking the Concorde to Naples. It's a wonderful city with a great deal to see and do, especially for those new to Europe. Once you tire of it however you may want to explore Florence. Art, history, culture, all abound in great quantity. You could spend a month simply walking the streets and see more of any one of those than most people, to their great detriment, will get to experience in a lifetime._

 _Please be very careful with the dress. It's extremely valuable for a multitude of should of course fit perfectly, but if not check with Will on places I'd recommend for alterations and/or cleaning._

 _Also, I thought it best to retrieve your blade before some idiot melted it as if it were a cheap pocket knife. It's a work of art and deserves better than such a drab fate. Do take better care of it in the future and if you paid anything under $2000 you robbed the seller blind. The purse I included has a special pocket for discrete carry through customs so don't worry about any issues bringing it with you. As I suspect you'll be disallowed to bring your gun having it as a means to protect yourself would be wise, especially after having proven so proficient with it._

 _Alas I must end this here. A very loud and rude man is attempting to co-opt my table and making quite a scene. Therefore I shall wish you well and hope someday we can meet again as something other than enemies._

 _Farewell_

 _PS; The beef wellington you made was delicious but a bit heavy on the pepper. You may wish to switch to a finer ground white and cut back a half tablespoon._

She folded the letter and chuckled. _So that was where it went! Well, at least I know he likes my cooking. Hopefully I'll get to do it again and this time he'll be able to eat it at the table. When I get a table. Hmm, what would he even like? Beef wellington obviously but if I just made that he'd probably consider it uninspired or something since I already know he likes it. Maybe... wait, am I looking forward to inviting Hannibal into my home and cooking him dinner?_

She looked down at the letter, frowned, then sighed. _I guess I am. It's not like I can be mad at him for being a killer anymore. I'm one now too and the worst part is I liked it. Bastard destroyed my career before I could even have one, ruined my life, and the moment I could drop his ass without winding up in a cell I cut him up so bad they still aren't sure if the CoD was drowning in his own blood or exsanguination._

She shook her head then headed over to the oven and incinerated the letter using one of the burners. It'd been in his handwriting so the last thing either of them needed was someone finding it. Then she laid the new outfit out on her bed and goggled at it. There was no way on god's green earth he _wouldn't_ find her wearing that. Damn. It somehow managed to combine old world class with new world sexy without one overriding the other far as she could tell.

She decided to give it a test run tonight. Wear it to her last session with Graham, see if he figured out where it'd come from. Then she'd wear it for the trip, find a high quality dry cleaners, and make sure it got treated right. Hell, she might even buy a mannequin and put it on display.

Three hours later she got out of her rental car (She'd already sold her actual car) and walked up to Dr. Graham's office door, then knocked on it. A moment later it opened, his eyes widened, and he motioned her inside. "He gave _that_ to you?"

Looked like he'd picked up on it faster than she'd thought he would.

"Yeah. Whole outfit. Perfume and jewelry too. How'd you know?"

"You have no idea what that dress means, do you?"

She blinked. "Guess not."

He led her into the main room then had her do a slow 360. "I'd never thought I'd see that worn by _anyone_ while he was still alive, much less for him to _give_ it to someone."

"What's wrong?"

"That dress belonged to his mother. Jewelry too if I'm remembering right."

She paled sheet white and whispered "His letter said it was valuable for an assortment of reasons but I had no idea... "

"He's sending you a message."

"That I'm his?" She asked, starting to get mad. Hannibal or not, _no one_ owned her.

"No, that he considers you worthy."

"Worthy of what?" She asked, confused.

"Of being Mrs. _him_."

"Wait, he wants me to be Clarice... Lecter?"

To her surprise the name rolled effortlessly off her tongue without her wanting to spit, puke, or yell hell naw.

Was she for some reason _not_ terrified and/or disgusted by the very concept of marrying a cannibalistic serial killer?

After a moment she realized with disconcerted confusion that no, she wasn't. Not 2 hours ago she'd been daydreaming about making him dinner.

"Do you still have the knife you used?"

Startled out of her moment of shock she nodded. "He retrieved it for me while I was in processing. Gave it to me along with the outfit and the letter."

"May I?"

She nodded and got it out of her purse, then handed it to him grip first. He accepted it, made a few motions, couple quick stabs at nothing, flipped it a couple times, and then used it to slice a piece of paper he held aloft in half in one smooth motion. He then offered it back and said "He's telling you to keep that and I'd have to agree. It's a hell of a blade. The balance is perfect and it just falls into the hand like it belongs there. From what I've heard you know how to use it too."

She sighed. "It was all just so... " She wasn't sure how to put it.

He smiled tightly. "The first kill's always a shock. Put the knife away, set your purse over there, then stand here and close your eyes."

She did as instructed as he moved over by one of the chairs and his voice smoothed like honey. "You just had dinner and you knew Krendler was hunting you. You needed to keep to areas there'd be cameras so there'd be evidence, so you ducked into an alley you knew would look empty but give you an alibi. So, you're walking along and... Describe it to me."

She did, and when she got to the fight, and cutting Krendler, he said "Stop, slow down. Take it movement by movement. Tell me what you see, what you feel."

"I knew I needed... "

"No, don't give me a report. _Live_ it, describe it."

She focused, and felt her body move as she lost herself in the memory. "My everything hurts from the steel plate blocking his shot but I need to disarm him before he can try again. A flick of the hand, a brush gleams in shadow. I slice at his wrist as fast and hard as I can. Red trails behind the blade like paint after a bold stroke. I shift, the brush parts his shirt as it moves, and he tries to jerk away but his guts are already spilling. The reek of it hits me but it's all part of the painting. Another shift, looping, movement is life and the picture's waiting to be finished. A silver flash, a gurgling gasp, and everything's dyed crimson. I end it, bury the blade in his ribs, the brush stilling, and his eyes fill with fear as he realizes he's got only moments left to live. I watch, the light in them fades. I feel free, like a bird that's escaped from a cage I didn't know I was in. Then the painting's done and I pay my respects, fading into shadowed depths, the bird once again caged."

She opened her eyes and realized she was on the other side of the room. "What the?"

Graham's smile is half pride, half pain. "You danced as you relived it. I'm afraid this is the end of the woman you were Ms. Starling, and what you are now knows the taste of blood. You'll never look at anyone quite the same again, always picturing in the back of your mind what it'd be like to make another painting with the people around you."

She started to protest and he asked "Close your eyes again but keep the vision of me in your head then think of painting, the freedom of flight, a bird loosed of it's cage. Tell me what you see."

She did so but before she could think to protest again the vision was on her and her voice was almost dreamy as she lost herself to it. "The brush flies like the rising sun, red from belt to chin. Buttons bisected, fly and flip. Pirouette, the wrist opens like a book, spin, a streak of silver across the hips, eggs become omelet, arcing, a ruby line erupts, showering me, then sun sets as the body falls in the rain. I bow, en face devant, and it is done."

"Now open your eyes and remember what you just said."

She did and jerked, aghast, as it all played through her head again. She'd been a ballet dancer with a canvas, art coming to life under her hands as she'd moved. No thought, no hesitation, just a sense of almost childlike, innocent joy with a vitality, a power, she knew instantly was more addictive than anything else in the world.

And then she puked.

Graham already had a trash can under her face. When she finished heaving he offered her mouthwash and a stiff drink. Once she finished shaking he said quietly "I know exactly how you feel. My... theme... is different but the end result is the same. If you don't want to have that happen again, that time for real, you'll take that knife and that dress, you'll put them back in that box, you'll write him a letter apologizing and telling him exactly why you can't accept it, and you'll return it to sender because I guarantee you this. He will bring that out of you the same way I did but he won't do it to help you. He'll think he is, but he loves turning innocents into killers. Coaxing out the worst in us, then convincing us it's the best. I have to fight every minute of every day like an alcoholic trapped in a bar not to take just one more sip. I've fallen off that wagon and it haunts me, tears at me in my dreams, the beast laughing at me and promising one day he'll be free."

He shook his head and she saw something in his eyes, a reflection of that monster maybe, before he said "I won't tell you what to do Clarice. You're at that point, right now, where what you decide will shape who you are and everything you do for the rest of you life."

She looked at him, confused. "You're not going to demand I send the knife back?"

He chuckled but it was flat. "I fight what I am because I refuse to be that... thing in my soul. He didn't put it there, but he brought it out and gave me the same choice I'm giving you. Hide, or hunt. I hid, and I'm going to hide, or try to, for the rest of my life. It's a bitter, terrifying way to live and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. Not even him, but you? Your whole life you've been trapped. Held back, stifled, forced to do things against your very nature and now you're free for the first time in your entire existence. Maybe you'd be better off letting whatever it is in you loose for however long it can run. It might well be the only thing that can ever make you happy or whole. I don't know and it's not my place to tell you what to do. Either way, whatever choice you make, I won't judge you for it. I don't have the right."

She nodded shakily and turned to leave. As her hand reached for the doorknob he said quietly "If you do go with him, do me a favor."

She didn't turn around to look at him as she asked "What?"

"Make him happy."

-^V^- -^V^-

She couldn't remember the drive home or even getting home. Her entire life was a jumbled mess, a puzzle box someone had shaken until the pieces just didn't fit anymore, and all she could do was sit on the edge of her bed trying to make things make sense again. Murder was _wrong_. There was no way to argue it wasn't, but when she'd killed Krendler it'd felt so _right_. And when she'd imagined killing Will it'd been so easy she hadn't even noticed she was dreaming every movement, every drop of blood, before he snapped her out of it. It hadn't even felt like killing someone. It'd been something else. It'd been life, and art, and death all at once, all the same, begging to be set free with the grace of a ballerina wielding a brush.

When she imagined never doing that again, of putting the genie back in the box, it hurt. Not just emotionally either. It felt like someone was slowly tearing out something vital while being crammed into a box screaming and begging to be set free.

Was _that_ what she was? Was _that_ what Hannibal had seen in her the moment he'd set eyes on her? This entire time, had be been playing her? No, and that was the part that hurt. He hadn't played her at all. All he'd done was make her face that thing in her soul she hadn't known was there, and now that she did he was offering her what she'd always wanted. Freedom. A life without repression or condemnation. Maybe even a family.

Thoughts of marrying him, of children and a home, nights spent hunting. Sometimes prey, sometimes each other, and when one caught the other of something so far past sex she had no idea what it was. She realized she was sweating, almost panting, her legs crushed together and one hand mauling a breast. She jerked, and forced herself to calm down and walked over to the bathroom mirror.

She closed her eyes and let it all play through her head again. The wedding would be on the first day of spring under new, permanent, identities as if being reborn. Her in an ornate white dress feeling so full she could burst, him in a tux looking handsome and proud. Will, the best man and ringbearer. Vows, the kiss, and then Hannibal _takes_ her. Crushing his hand in hers while she screamed and pushed. A bundle, no, two, and eyes full of love, of hope, for them and him. Lilith. The girl was Lilith, the boy was Damien.

Nights, sometimes just taking in the sights, sometimes something more. Hunting in the chill air. Sometimes to remove some fool from the gene pool, others to make art, and sometimes for something more. Willow. The third would be a girl named Willow, named after her godfather.

The children, growing, maturing, trials and joys. Teaching them how to survive, how to prosper, how to be more than the weak, deluded things around them. Damien, a lady's man but a gentleman, becomes a successful corporate schemer and makes incredible amounts of money off the stock and technologies markets. Lilith, following in her mother's footsteps, joins the polizia. Eventually becomes the head of the Italian national serial crimes unit to everyone's amusement. Two children of her own, both growing so fast. Willow, quiet but brilliant, a bit like her namesake, becomes a renowned artist and is so successful her work is even featured at the Louvre. The three of them presenting her and Hannibal with the deed for the original family lands, complete with a rebuilt and modernized castle for their 25th anniversary.

Him, old, dying in their bed with her and the children, now all grown, there to make sure he didn't die alone like he'd always thought he would. Everyone in black, a funeral in a downpour. Her, heart dead, eyes like ice, alone, always hunting, trying to bury the pain in art but it never goes away until one day, unable to bear it anymore, she makes one last painting while dreaming of love lost, praying, pleading, to see it once again on the other side.

The vision faded and she saw tears running down her face. She pretended she wasn't seeing that and asked herself _So if I go with Hannibal I'll have a life of joy, an ending of agony, and a legacy of predators and killers? I don't want to die old and alone much less old, alone, and goddamn cutting myself to pieces like some demented Picasso!_

She closed her eyes again, this time forcing herself to imagine what would happen if she did like Will had suggested and sent the dress back.

Watching the postal worker cart off the box, seeing her children, the love she'd have had, the life she'd almost had, and the pain at the end of it being whisked away. Almost begging to take it back but forcing herself not to. The thing in her fighting, screaming, telling her she'll never know peace ever again but don't worry. She won't be alone because it'll be right there, laughing as she dies in agony knowing what she could've had.

The first day is hell. Feeling like she's cut off something she can't live without but can't see. Fear, pain, waking up in it, living with it, trying to bury it in the move. The trip, alone, wearing clothes that mark her as not belonging, people looking at her like something they'd stepped in. Processing, someone asking if she was okay, putting on a brave front and saying she was fine.

Wandering Naples, the sights, the sounds, the smells, all pointless. Dead, like she is inside. The only life the art she can see dancing in her head. Days become months, then years. Alone, never letting anyone get close. Pain, and loss, and regret growing like ivy over her soul, killing it at a glacier's pace.

Waking up one morning feeling almost okay, having her first good day since making that decision and hoping this was the first day of the rest of her life. Then the news, someone made a painting. She searches, finds a knife, the thing in her laughs, and she considers killing herself but she knows if the tries the monster, the artist, will finally take over and she'll die in a hail of bullets because the thing is wild and vicious but not smart. She takes pleasure in pointing out it's fuckups and how what it'd done might come back and kill both of them. It quiets.

Going to a local church, confession, the priest retching, begging for help to chain the artist. Going to the church when she's not at work or asleep. Going to NA meetings, never telling them why or what her drug is. People helping, understanding, and things get better for a while.

More years, then another painting on the news. A girl, a ballerina from a show she'd been at the night before. Eyes on a tabloid in a newsstand she sees the next day from a reporter's telephoto lens full of terror that seem to burn and tear at her soul.

Returning to the US, to Will. Telling him what's going on. Knowing it'll happen again, and again, faster, until the thing had taken over completely and she was a voice in it's head, dying by the day. Begging. Make it quick. A flash of silver, the pain is barely a twinge, in tears as everything dims, thanking him for ending it all. Darkness. There's no funeral, the only person there when she's buried is Will who visits her every year after on her birthday. Hannibal visits only once, giving her her knife back, and offering a prayer she'd finally found peace.

One, a life of evil and joy, family, art, with a melancholic end.

The other a life of pain, refusal, finally feeling nothing but relief as she begs a friend to kill her. No one knows or cares that she's dead other than Will and Hannibal.

She opens her eyes and they're dry, haunted, dead. She knows what she has to do now. She's known all along. She turns, goes to the box, and picks up the knife.


End file.
